


Chrysopoeia

by Flourish



Category: Georgette Heyer - These Old Shades
Genre: F/M, Genderqueer, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flourish/pseuds/Flourish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But you could hardly be my Duchess if you were still my Léon." It was not an easy road, to become a girl at Léon's age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chrysopoeia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jay Tryfanstone](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jay+Tryfanstone).



> Written for Yuletide 2008. An enormous thank-you to my beta reader, Joni.

"You shall have to be very calm, infant," Justin said. His eyes shone dark and lively in his white face. "For once you shall be the still center of all activity."

"I am sure I can, _Monsigneur_," Léonie replied, smiling up at him pertly. "It is oh so much easier to be still when one is strapped into a cage of a dress, you know!"

"But you could hardly be my Duchess if you were still my Léon, and wore breeches," Justin said, raising his hands to open the grand double doors.

* * *

Léon's first impression of the Duke of Avon: a shockingly solid, strong snare. His cheek suddenly pressed against warm, smooth satin. Then, hands holding his wrists together and dragging him down to his knees: a dangerous man! He did not see the jewels, the beribboned cane and the foppishly tied cravat until Jean came and addressed the Duke as "milord." Then he blushed red with shame for not realizing that he had collided with such an exalted creature.

Léon had a difficult time remembering anything more - try though he might - except hearing the words "I purchase your brother, body and soul" come from Avon's mouth. He remembered that phrase because he remembered his very next thought: "Well, it can only be better than Jean!"

In later times, when he was lounging in Avon's library or in his little room, Léon did allow his mind to wander back to the first time he met Avon. In contrast, he did not think very much about life as Léonie. It was all so long ago. He occasionally wondered what M. le Curé would say about his current circumstances. M. le Curé would surely think that he had become _une fille de joie_, Avon's light o' love, though of course he would be dreadfully wrong. But Léon did not dwell on this thought. Avon did not know that Léon had ever been Léonie, so Léon did his best to forget it himself.

Early on, there was a terrible moment when Walker had seemed to want to come in while Léon bathed. "No!" he had had to cry, "no, I will not allow you in - you shall observe me later and see that I am very thorough, but you shall not come in!" Walker, with much complaining, had complied, and was eventually forced to admit that Léon was as meticulous a boy as ever he had seen. Henceforth, Léon was careful to always remain as clean and fresh as a flower, so as not to invite too much oversight.

The fear of discovery passed. Days crept by and he grew comfortable. He sat at Avon's feet, leaning against his chair, and all was right in the world; he said "I will never leave you" and he meant it.

Then, sent to bed, he thought that he was a foolish creature to make promises that he could not keep. He remembered Mère Bonnard and how her body spread and her breasts drooped down. That was not from too much child-bearing. Surely it was the natural result of age. Now, at nineteen, he could wear the severest black suits and tie his cravat carefully to spread out over his breast, but in two years? In five, or ten, or twenty?

* * *

Avon flung the door open. On the other side there was first a shocked silence, then a general outcry, then Rupert shouting "Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire! Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire!" Léonie clasped Justin's hand a little more firmly, looking to him to steady her. She was as tense as a lute string, so much wanting to dive into the fray!

Avon silenced them with that curious imperious way he had, his thin mouth curled in a smile that a year before would have seemed prideful but now seemed merely satisfied. "No," he said, "no, Rupert. I have the honour to present to you all - my Duchess."

Then Rupert and Fanny both lunged for Léonie in a deluge of exclamations; hot on their heels were Merivale and Marling and Davenant, whirling her around like a little girl, kissing her and calling her a madcap and a hoyden and such a clever infant that it was not to be believed, rejoicing, rejoicing! She stood quite, quite still, just as Avon had said: the eye of the storm. He was not even near her anymore, yet her composure was quite unflappable.

"Dear Léon - Léonie!" Davenant stuttered; and that finally undid her at least enough that she found herself kissing him soundly and wiping tears from her eyes.

* * *

'Twere not for Fanny, Léon might never have been reconciled to his new life as a girl. But Fanny was so like her brother that it was simply impossible to dislike her. She was cunning and sly, though never deceitful; in fact, the only person that Fanny was unable to work round to her own way of thinking was Léon.

Fortunately, Fanny found Léon's immunity to her wiles to be charming rather than infuriating. Without cunning to fall back on, Fanny was forced to treat Léon rather like a young sister, bullying him into wearing his petticoats and tying his hair with ribands, and entreating him to say ''pon rep' or 'Lud' instead of 'bah.'

Léon, for his part, returned the favor and twice over. He never worshiped Fanny the way he was wont to worship Avon; and yet more than once he begged Fanny to let him brush out her long golden hair and put her earrings carefully in her ears. When Fanny would lecture Léon on a fashion plate in _The Lady's Magazine_, seeking some evidence that he had put his mind to learning different cuts and trims and fabrics, she found herself both frustrated and enchanted at receiving always the same response: "_Quant à ça_, Miladi Fanny, I think your dress today is prodigious modish!"

So the first fortnight passed. And yet when Léon's _Monsigneur_ returned it was as if the intervening weeks had never happened: no more Léonie but only the urchin, the infant, the page! When Léon swept a curtsy he felt like an actor in a theatrical show, and a bad actor at that.

Nevertheless, the act convinced. "You are no longer Léon," Avon told him.

From then forward, nothing would induce Avon to behave towards Léonie as he once had towards Léon, except in the realm of fencing. It was not altogether a miserable transformation to undergo, despite Léon's protests. As a blushing, flighty girl, Léonie was free to make the most outrageously bold and coquettish statements, blinking up at Avon through her long and luxurious eyelashes. Certainly she was barred from worshiping at his feet as once she had, but she could trade that privilege for the privilege of dancing the minuet.

"_Un - deux - trois_," she counted under her breath as they danced, trying to stay light on the balls of her ivory-slippered feet, "_un - deux - trois,_" and Avon's magnificent lead swept her along so that she hardly had to think of anything else. It was a different feeling than fencing, where their wits met in combat as much as their swords; here, wit and competition were nothing, and co-operation was all.

* * *

"Well, my dear, you have grown _very_ proper and charming," Marling said, when the merry-go-round of well-wishers had spun about Léonie sufficient to bring them face-to-face.

"I have tried, m'sieur," she said prettily, "in order not to bring disgrace on Miladi Fanny!"

"For more reasons than that, I'll warrant!" Marling said.

"Oh no," Léonie replied, with a slight bashful smile. "No more reasons than that!" But she smoothed her saffron gown, straightening its flounces, and thought of her beaux, and the dances, and the crush of the crowd, and the sheer joy of being the adored center of attention. She had not known, when she had decided to try her best at becoming a girl, that being proper and charming brought such lovely things.

* * *

"You will see the King, infant," Avon promised Léonie in the coach on the way to Versailles, "and the Queen, and possibly the Dauphin."

"And Madame de Pompadour," Léonie insisted, making a pretty moue, "I want to see her, because I have heard that she is very beautiful."

"Very," said his Grace. "You will also see her favourite, de Stainville, and Monsieur, and the Comte d'Eu."

"_Tiens!_" said Léonie, but her mind was already elsewhere. She twitched the curtain aside and watched the countryside fly by, the road get eaten up beneath the hooves of Avon's fast English horses. Her corsetry made her very aware of each breath she took, very aware of how the chain of sapphires on her white breast moved with each inhalation. The gold netting of her petticoat scratched at her hand where it lay on her lap.

"Last time I wore this chain, I was Léon," she could not help but think, "and I was clad in black, and my duty was to serve; whereas now, I am clad in gold, and even silly Condé shall bring me a cup of ratafie if I want it.

"But I cannot fall asleep on _Monseigneur_ now, or rather, if I did poor Rupert would be scandalised. He would be scandalised if he knew I had ever fallen asleep on _Monseigneur_, even as Léon!" she concluded.

"What cheer, Milady Léonie?" Rupert asked. She let the curtain fall back down.

"Not Miladi, no, Rupert! But the carriage is stifling, is it not?"

"You cannot be _ennuyée_ on your way to Versailles, Léonie!"

She moved her fan in the way that Lady Fanny always did, a dismissive twitch, and exclaimed, "I never said I was, did I? I did not!"

* * *

The evening before Léonie left him, Avon had told her, "I always win, child." He had called her "_ma belle_."

She had dropped to one knee before him, like a chivalrous young page, and pressed his hand to her lips and held it there a moment. His hand had been cool and smooth. "_Merci, Monseigneur. Bonne nuit_," she had said, her pert little voice husky with emotion. Then she stood, turned, ran up the stairs like a small startled creature. At the top she stopped, turned, peeped tentatively around the corner to catch one last glimpse.

Avon had stayed where he was. "The gentlemen do always kiss the lady's hand," he said, quite softly, so that Léonie could barely hear him.

"Léon," he said.

Léonie drew back. Her image reflected in the mirror on the landing looked, for a moment, slender and black-clad, like a page. It was a momentary illusion. Slender, gold-clad, she hastened along her way to her chamber and thence to Bassincourt.

* * *

"_Mignonne_," Avon said quietly, as M. le Curé fended off the curious villagers who wished to know more about the strange goings-on in their parish, the curious wedding that had taken place with only a few lucky souls as witness.

"_Monseigneur_?" Léonie's eyes were very, very blue, and her little round face was very, very white, but vivid bright spots showed in her cheeks as proof of her excitement. "You do not - regret it, I hope."

"I must be Justin to you now, _mignonne_. It is not - _convenable_, that you should call me _Monseigneur_."

Léonie's mouth settled into a familiar line. "I do not care about _convenable, Monseigneur_," she said firmly. "My life has not been enough _convenable_ for me to care! And you do not care either, or you would not have me for your wife. I have learned to curtsy and dress modishly for you. I have become quite the rage for you. Is that not enough?"

"I hardly asked you to become the rage, _mignonne_. You would not have done it if you had not enjoyed it."

"And," Léonie said, barreling on as if he had not spoken, "I would rather that you called me '_enfant_,' as you used to. That, I enjoyed." But her mouth curved into a small smile as she said it.

"Shall I call you Léon, then, as well?"

"I would like that above all things," she said, and smiled fully, and went out to accept the congratulations of the village.

* * *

When they toasted the Duchess of Avon, she felt quite high in the world; and when they toasted Fanny's dearest sister, she felt quite loved; and when his Grace toasted his wife, she felt as lucky as she could possibly be; but when Rupert said 'here's to you, brave lad,' she caught Avon's eye, and she felt as though she had come properly home for the first time in her life.

* * *

  


> ...by their powerful Art they bind  
> Volatile Hermes, and call up unbound  
> In various shapes old Proteus from the sea,  
> Drain'd through a Limbec, to his native form.  
> \- Milton, _Paradise Lost_ (III.603-06)

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that Léonie is, canonically, only tutored in the arts of gentle exclamation at Avon, by Justin. However, I was entranced by the idea of Fanny making a first stab at the project - and you will forgive me for the liberty, I hope.
> 
> I was a bit nervous about publication dates, as _These Old Shades_ is very difficult to date (there is much contradictory evidence within the text!). _The Lady's Magazine_ was first published in 1770, however, which leads me to believe it is possible that Fanny would have had access to it. Certainly it is not outside the realm of possibility.


End file.
